


met my local rockstar, now i'm havin' visions

by piagnucolare



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Come as Lube, Coming Untouched, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drugged Sex, Emetophilia, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Masochism, Mind Break, Multiple Orgasms, Omorashi, Overstimulation, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Shotgunning, Underage Drug Use, also mj brad and adrian toomes, baby groupie peter and rockstar quentin!!!!, grammarly and me together again. my beta, there's no good tag for this but there is burning. like a cigarette burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29875092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/pseuds/piagnucolare
Summary: Peter’s not a music person, and he’s definitely not a rock music person, not by a long shot. He’s fine listening to jazz every now and then, but anything newer tends to grate on his senses. Something about this song, though, sounds incredibly good— the rhythm burrowing into his head as soon as the first bassline kicks in. Catchy isn’t the right word. An earworm, maybe. Engineered to get you addicted.Even with his nigh debilitating aversion to pop culture, Peter’s completelyentranced.(Peter wants an autograph. Quentin wants more.)
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	met my local rockstar, now i'm havin' visions

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this one for a while.... letting it stagnate in my drafts.... but i decided i'd finish it just 'cause
> 
> title from lana del rey's "is it wrong" because if lana del rey doesn't play at least a tiny part in your interpretation of beckpeter, come on now
> 
> warnings for dubious consent, heavy drug use, a splash of pee, an asthma attack (?) that can easily be read as vomiting, and burning with a cigarette

Aunt May had established one basic rule when she bought Peter a ticket to see The Sinister Six in concert— under no circumstances should he do drugs. No marijuana, no mushrooms, and absolutely no cocaine. At the time, it seemed like a given. He’d never done any drugs before, barely even sipped a _beer_ , so why would he start on one of the most important nights of his life?

And yet, here he is, in the back of MJ’s Beetle, gingerly pinching the end of a smoldering joint between two trembling fingers, desperately trying to shake the image of May’s disappointed face from his head. He can practically hear her lecture about the dangers of taking pot— the same one she gives at the beginning of every school year since seventh grade. MJ and Brad both give him blank looks from the front seat of her car, like they were expecting this.

“You know, you don’t have to smoke if you don’t want to,” MJ says, not unkindly, even though there’s a pinch to her eyebrows that means she’s one-hundred percent judging him.

“Yeah,” Brad adds, “it’s not for everyone, man.” 

And whoop-de-doo, now _Brad’s_ going to hold it over his head for the rest of the night. Stupid Brad, with his stupidly handsome face. Peter wouldn’t be so jealous if he were all show and no go, but Brad’s the whole package— smart, athletic, and handsome to boot. MJ’s bound to fall for him sooner or later, and Peter intends on preventing that for as long as he can. It’s part of the reason why he’s here, seeing some psychedelic rock band that he’s never heard of, but MJ seems to really love.

Right. Tonight’s all about impressing MJ, Brad and his handsome face be damned. Peter slips the end of the joint between his lips, giving it a hard suck and swallowing down the smoke with a grimace. _Hold it in, Parker. Show her you’re not as lame as you look._ He manages to keep the acrid smoke in his lungs for an impressive two seconds before dissolving into a sputtering, coughing mess. It’s embarrassing for a moment, but then MJ’s doing that bemused laugh she always does when Peter says something funny, so he gives her a watery smile. Screw _Brad_.

Peter gets the hang of it by his third puff, and feels the high by his fourth, and it’s nothing like what he expected it to be. He feels sluggish and a bit uncoordinated, which isn’t as wild as they make it seem in those PSAs and after-school specials.

They pass the joint back and forth until there’s nothing left but smoldering rolling paper— the entire car smelling sour, oddly reminding him of the extra-strong coffee grounds May brews when she’s working late. 

Despite the fact that the world has definitely started to tilt on its axis, Brad and MJ seem completely fine, nowhere near as high as Peter is. Is he _high_? He kind of feels like he is, but he doesn’t know for sure. He’s never been high before, and he never thought his first time getting high would be at a rock concert— with Brad Davis of all people. What a weird turn of events. He laughs to himself.

MJ helps him out of the car. Peter’s sober enough to walk on his own legs, but not sober enough to do it gracefully. He bumps into her back more than once as they make their way into the stadium, and even sways into Brad when they stop to find their spot. Luckily, he’s too busy staring out at the seemingly endless sea of people to read into the look that MJ and Brad give each other. If he had some sense left in him, maybe he’d feel embarrassed.

Their seats aren’t as close to the stage as he thought they’d be, given the ticket prices, but he’s fine with not seeing the band up close. He’s here to show MJ that he’s just as cool as Brad, not to get blinded by pyrotechnics. Besides, if the band is actually good, just hearing them should be enough.

“I’m so excited,” MJ whisper-shouts into his ear, barely audible over the ambient sounds of the entire stadium around them. It feels claustrophobic, like a sensory overload, but that just might be because he’s high. He can grin and bear it. After all, if MJ’s excited, then he’s excited— that’s all that matters.

The lights go down and the screams reach a fever pitch, a wild rush of noise from every corner of the stadium. It almost knocks Peter back into his seat with the sheer force of sound, but he manages to stay upright, motivated by his curiosity alone. Wondering what kind of band could possibly get this kind of reaction out of so many people. In an impressive display of special effects, the stage relights in a wash of green, a dense fog creeping in and spilling out into the crowd.

Still, Peter’s too busy sneaking glances at the awestruck expression on MJ’s pretty face to appreciate the technical magic unfolding in front of him. He doesn’t plan on looking away from her for the whole night, his eyes firmly glued to the handsome slope of her chin, the curve of her lips. Totally focused on her, zeroed in like he’s got tunnel vision— until the music starts.

Peter’s not a music person, and he’s definitely not a rock music person, not by a long shot. He’s fine listening to jazz every now and then, but anything newer tends to grate on his senses. Something about this song, though, sounds incredibly good— the rhythm burrowing into his head as soon as the first bassline kicks in. Catchy isn’t the right word. An earworm, maybe. Engineered to get you addicted.

Even with his nigh debilitating aversion to pop culture, Peter’s completely _entranced_.

The band rises up from beneath the floor, wielding their instruments like weapons, and it’s unlike anything he’s ever seen before. He can barely see them, sure— just the shadowy figures of some rockstars in the distance, but he can tell that they’re absolutely killing it.

The lights are blinding, bright colors that illuminate the smoke pouring from the stage, like something out of a sci-fi movie. MJ says something to him, maybe, but he can barely register it over the complete sensory epiphany he’s having right now. The lead singer is murmuring into the mic instead of belting the lyrics, but it _works_ — gives Peter chills along the back of his neck as if someone were whispering right into his ear. His head still feels heavy, but it helps him process the music, makes everything feel like it’s moving slower.

If all rock music sounds like this, then Peter’s definitely been missing out. Part of him doubts it, though— this band seems to be one of a kind. 

Far out.

—

Peter doesn’t know how he’s meant to cope after such a life-changing experience.

His senses have been totally ravaged— so much so that, when the band does their last encore, the lack of music makes his head spin. He drops down into his chair as soon as the last band member leaves the stage, his feet aching from standing upright all night.

MJ sits beside him, one hand giddily clutching his arm. Leaning into him, not Brad. “Holy shit,” she laughs. “Holy _shit_.”

“I know.” Peter grins, loving the way her voice has gone hoarse from shouting along with the lyrics. “That was amazing, MJ, really. I’m so glad you invited me—”

“We should get going, before everyone else jams up the parking lot,” Brad interrupts, shrugging on his coat.

Peter shoots a dirty look at Brad, but MJ nods, ending whatever moment they were sharing. Peter’s not a mean person, not really, but god, does he wish Brad would piss off. The only thing that could’ve made this night better would’ve been Brad going home sick. Brad not coming. Brad not existing altogether.

They push past the people milling about, still stuck in their post-concert bliss. Peter doesn’t blame them for idling around— a part of him hopes that the band might do another encore, and then another, well into the night. At least this means MJ’s done hanging out with Brad for the night.

They’re almost through the doors when Brad skids go a stop. “Hey,” he says, leaning close to MJ and pointing to the merch booth. “You want a tee?”

Why didn’t Peter think of that? It’s not like he could afford to buy her a tee— he’s only got five dollars in his wallet— but _still_. It’s the thought that counts.

“A shirt would be cool,” MJ says hesitantly, looking between Peter and Brad. “But I was really hoping there’d be autographs or something.”

Peter might not be rich, but he knows how to ask for an autograph. Knows how to beg too, if he’s being honest. “I can try and get them to sign something for you,” he offers, trying not to seem too eager. “They’ve gotta be around here somewhere, right?”

MJ doesn’t seem to have any faith in him, given her bemused grin. It’s a grin nonetheless, so he smiles back. “That’s okay, Peter. I’ll just get a shirt.”

“Yeah, Peter,” Brad sneers. “How would you even get into the green room? It’s not like you blend in with the crowd.”

Peter frowns, fiddling with the hem of his turtleneck. Brad watches him squirm, his grin getting even smugger. He’s so annoying. Peter’s going to get that goddamn autograph, no matter what. Just to show Brad he can blend in, be cool enough to get in with the band. And to give MJ the perfect gift, better than any ten-dollar shirt. “I’ll get you one, MJ, I swear.” Peter says, looking over at the nearest security guard.

MJ shrugs. “If you wanna try, go ahead. Just don’t take too long. My mom wants me home by three.”

Peter nods. “I’ll catch up with you guys in the parking lot!”

The two of them disappear into the merch line, Brad flipping him off behind MJ’s back as they go. Peter scowls. How can Brad even afford to buy MJ a tee after spending so much money on the concert ticket itself?

Whatever. He’s going to get her a much better gift anyway. If he can find the band members, that is.

“Excuse me, sir,” Peter starts, nervously waving a hand at the security guard. “Do you know where I can find the green room?”

The guard gives him an unimpressed once over. “Why’re you askin’?”

“Um,” Peter stammers. He’s never had much luck with authority figures. “I’m a journalist. I write for the music column at the Daily Bugle.”

All his statements come out sounding like questions, but the security guard doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he sighs. “Look, kid. I can’t let you go back there, so there’s no point in tellin’ you.”

“Please,” Peter says, instantly, hoping the whine isn’t too audible in his voice. “I’ll be quick— I’m not a weirdo or anything! I just want an autograph, just for this girl I like.”

“I’m sorry,” the guard says, and to his credit, he does seem a little apologetic. “I can’t let you back there. But if it helps, uh— one or two of them went out back to their tour bus.” The guard clears his throat. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

Peter lights up. The tour bus was parked right behind the fence, right next to the parking lot. He can scale the fence, ask for an autograph, and book it back to the Beetle in no time flat. “Thank you, thanks so much— seriously,” he says, backing away, before jogging towards the exit and out into the cool night air.

In Peter’s mind’s eye, the fence was a lot shorter. Now that he’s looking at it up close, it’s probably more than twice his height— not an impossible climb, but still a little intimidating. And, honestly, he’s sober enough to recognize how nuts this would look to a random passerby, so he books it up the fence as quickly as he can. 

There aren’t any lights on inside the tour bus, which makes him lose a little confidence. He wants to bring MJ back a souvenir at least, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to just flat-out steal something. Peter knocks gently against the metal door, listening for a response. It sounds like there’s some shuffling going on inside, so he knocks again, ear against the door. Reaches for the handle.

Before he can even wrap his finger around it, the door opens in a dramatic whoosh of what smells like incense and marijuana smoke, and what looks like the special effects on stage. Even more hypnotic. A man stands at the top of the stairs, looking down at Peter with an unimpressed expression on his handsome face.

“Can I help you?”

“I— are you in the band?” Peter asks hoarsely, coughing and waving the smoke out of his face.

Given the way the man’s expression sours, he’s probably offended that Peter even asked. Maybe he should’ve asked MJ who her favorite member is, before going on a wild goose chase for an autograph. He’s such an idiot.

“This is our tour bus, so you can do the math.” And now the man thinks he’s an idiot, too. Still, he doesn’t send Peter away, waving one hand for him to climb the stairs. “Come in. Before someone sees you.”

Peter brushes past the man, deeper into the hazy tour bus, smoke burning his lungs with every breath. The inside isn’t as dark as it looked on the outside, but it’s lit only with candles and a single, blue lava lamp. Peter’s eyes catch on the glow of a burning joint in an ashtray, left to smolder since there’s no one around to smoke it. Explains the haze, then.

The man follows close behind him, ushering towards the end of the bus where there are plush couches and a trippy set of tapestries hung up against the wall. A shag carpet too— Peter begged May for one when he saw it in a Sears’ catalog, but she said it’d be too hard to clean. He resists the urge to lie down on it and stroke it, turning instead to face the man behind him.

“So,” the man says, lips moving around a joint that he hadn’t been holding before. “Why are you here?”

Peter fidgets with the hem of his turtleneck again, before remembering Brad’s expression and dropping his hands to his sides. “I wanted an autograph? Or a t-shirt? A souvenir?”

The man raises an eyebrow, looking handsome and offended. Offensively handsome, too. “If you want some threads, I can give you directions to the merch booth.”

“I already went there, but it was too expensive. I don’t have that much on me,” Peter says, almost apologetic, despite not knowing why. Maybe even anxious. He’ll blame it on the weed, even though he’s pretty sure the effects are fading. “They’re ten-dollar shirts, man.”

“Too expensive for kids like you?” He crowds in closer, and Peter instinctively steps back, his calves grazing the couch. “What’s your name, then?” the man asks, still amused, like he’s in on a joke that Peter isn’t aware of.

There’s no reason for this man— this _rockstar_ — to be drawing out this interaction, especially since Peter’s nobody special. No good reason for him to be giving him any attention. Like he said, he’s just a kid. But somehow, he still hasn’t called security. Peter’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Peter,” he says, fidgeting with his sleeves like he can make himself seem more presentable. Never mind the fact that he’s trespassing. “Peter Parker, sir.”

“I’m Quentin Beck.” He pauses, eyeing him up and down. Sizing him up, maybe, in case Peter’s some nutso fan who wants to chop him into pieces. “You in school?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a sophomore in high school, actually.”

“Oh?” Quentin gives him a half-grin, his mouth curled into a sharp, dangerous shape. “Did Sable Starr send you, Peter Parker?”

Peter has no idea who that is. “No, sir. I just— I just wanted an autograph. Like I said.”

There’s a moment where Quentin doesn’t move, and Peter worries he’s somehow said the wrong thing. Maybe he should’ve pretended, gone along with the whole Sable Starr thing. Still, the smile on Quentin’s face doesn’t crack. 

“I can leave if you want,” Peter offers lamely. “You don’t, like, need to call your bodyguard or anything.”

“Leave?” Quentin asks, creeping even closer. Blocking Peter in, which, again, might be a good sign in this situation. “Why would I want that?”

“I jumped a fence and almost broke into your tour bus,” Peter blurts without thinking. “I mean— I just thought you’d be mad.”

“Maybe I’d be mad if you were one of the usual suspects— dumb kids looking to make some quick cash by selling our ashtrays to their friends. But you’re not, are you?”

Peter shakes his head, hair flopping against his face. “No, sir. I’m not a dumb kid.”

Peter’s actually pretty smart— in the top of his class, even. In another situation, he might brag about it, might try to emphasize the difference between him and the other kids who’ve broken into their tour bus before. But something tells him Quentin doesn’t care about his grades. Why would he? He’s a _rockstar_.

“Sir?” Quentin arches an eyebrow. “You don’t have to be so formal.” He slips past Peter and flops onto the couch, his knees spread just enough that Peter could fit between them, if he wanted to. Which, he doesn’t want to. Or does he? Is he actually into Quentin, or is he into a rockstar? Why is he even thinking about this?

He’ll just keep blaming the weed.

“Tell you what, Pete,” Quentin says, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. There’s a dark thatch of hair that disappears below the band of his jeans. Peter manages to catch a glimpse of it as his t-shirt rides up his stomach, swallowing audibly as Quentin groans. It’s almost pornographic. “I’ll give you one of my tees. I’ll even sign it for you— that’s how nice I am.”

Peter thinks of the surprise on MJ’s face when he returns with a legitimate shirt from one of the band members. Thinks of outshining Brad for once. “That’s so nice of you— totally out of sight,” Peter stammers. “I’ve got some money with me, but uh—”

Quentin raises a hand, effectively cutting him off with a wave. Interesting how that rockstar charisma is something he possesses on _and_ off-stage. “Peter, please. That’s like stealing candy from a baby. I don’t need your money. I don’t want it, either.”

That’s unexpected. This guy just told him to spend ten whole dollars on their ridiculously expensive threads, but now he’s offering a t-shirt from his own closet for _free_? 

“What did you think of the show?” Quentin asks suddenly, his pale blue eyes examining Peter from the couch. 

Peter racks his brain for a good compliment, but he doesn’t know anything about the music world. He tries to remember the things MJ’s said about them. “You guys are amazing. So psychedelic. Like, you’re totally the next Led Zeppelin.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Fuck Zeppelin. We’re going for a Pink Floyd vibe.”

Shit. Peter gets all these British bands mixed up. “Oh, yeah, you guys are _so_ Pink Floyd. Definitely. The guitars and stuff. The singing. So Floyd,” he says awkwardly.

It must be obvious that Peter has no idea what he’s talking about. Quentin’s got an amused smile on his face, like he knows. Like he can see right through him. _Dumb kid_ reverberates through Peter’s mind like a warning.

“Sorry,” Peter says, out of habit more than anything, nervously tugging on his shirt sleeve while Quentin watches from the couch. “I’m kind of nervous.”

“By all means, Pete— ramble on.” Quentin plucks a pre-rolled joint from the table, lighting it with a flourish. Peter watches him exhale, the puff of smoke making him seem even cooler. Even more mysterious. “You smoke?” he asks.

“Um,” Peter says, because _yes_ seems like too big of a lie when he’s only done it once. A few hours ago. “Sort of.”

Quentin pats the spot next to him on the couch and Peter takes the hint, sitting carefully on the edge of the cushion. Now that he’s closer, the smoke is almost suffocating— sweet instead of acrid, but nauseatingly so. His stomach curls, tying itself into knots when he realizes Quentin’s been staring at him.

“Here,” Quentin says, offering the joint to him in a strange mimicry of the events that had transpired in MJ’s car only a few hours ago. Same scene, despite everything being completely different.

Peter doesn’t feel like saying yes, but he also doesn’t want to say no— not when Quentin’s been so nice to him. “I actually don’t know how,” he lies. “I only do the edibles. Like the brownies and stuff.”

Whatever fears he’d had about rejecting the offer dissipate when all Quentin does is chuckle and take another drag for himself. He seems amused, if anything. “You got a sweet tooth, kid?” He blows smoke into Peter’s face and Peter tries not to sputter. It’s so heady, even when it’s just a secondhand exhale. “It’s cool.”

Peter offers a lopsided grin. “I wish I could smoke, though. That seems like it tastes really good.”

Quentin moves closer, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “There’s more than one way to taste it, you know.”

Something about the way he’s leaning in makes Peter lean in too. “Oh, um. Okay,” he says, hesitant, watching Quentin’s blue eyes dart across his face. Reading him like an open book, probably.

“Open your mouth,” Quentin commands, putting one broad, warm hand on the back of Peter’s neck, tipping his head back slightly. “And when I exhale, you inhale. Got it?”

“Got it,” Peter breathes, blinking dazedly like he’s already gotten a hit. Letting his jaw go slack as Quentin takes another big drag. The high from being this close to him is enough to send his head spinning. 

The smoke tastes as nauseatingly sweet as it smells, and Peter chokes around Quentin’s exhale despite his best efforts. He must seem like a fish out of water, literally— gulping in a breath and coughing wetly. On one particularly hard cough, he leans in too far, tipping forward and brushing his mouth against Quentin’s.

“Easy, tiger,” Quentin jokes, pulling his hand away from Peter’s neck. “At least buy me a drink first.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, blinking at the too-bright candles behind Quentin that have him seeing spots. The flames look like they’re swirling, shifting like heat waves over hot pavement. A chill runs down his spine— that joint definitely wasn’t just weed. It’s nothing like the stuff he smoked with Brad and MJ. “What _is_ that?”

“Seems to me like you were trying to lay one on me,” Quentin says, ignoring Peter’s question and blowing more smoke into his face, disorienting him further. “No technique though. You’re probably a letdown with the ladies, huh?”

The tour bus is spinning. Peter shakes his head, both in an attempt to disagree and to clear the fog from his mind. “I don’t do that,” he says. And for good measure, to drive the point home, “I haven’t had my first kiss yet. But, uh. Quentin? What was— what’s in that?”

Quentin’s eyes go dark, pupils widening, even though he’s been smoking this whole time. Were they that dilated before? Was it something he said? “It’s my own secret blend,” Quentin says, inspecting the smoldering joint. “I’ve got some eccentric tastes, so I tend to mix things myself. Guarantees the best thrills. Don’t you think, Pete?”

Quentin puts a hand on his thigh. Peter blinks at it, his eyes dry but vision blurry. He wants to curl up on the floor and sleep this off, whatever it is. He wants to go home. Even if May’s gonna be mad at him for smelling like smoke. Why is he even here again? His eyes wander down Quentin’s face, to his chest. Oh. Right.

“Can I have the shirt now?” he asks, trying not to tip forward again, pulled closer by Quentin’s hypnotic presence. If he leans in any closer, he feels like he might fall into him. “Please?”

“Leaving so soon?” Quentin asks, dark eyebrows drawn together in something like disappointment. “Don’t you think that’s kind of rude? I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Peter says slowly, shaking his head to try and think straight. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, Quentin’s half-lidded eyes staring at him expectantly. “I don’t wanna— don’t wanna be rude. You _are_ being nice, uh.”

Quentin smiles kindly. “I can be even nicer, y’know.” He rummages around in his pockets, before pulling out a little bag. “Wanna trip, Peter Parker?”

The thought of doing any other drugs makes his head spin, so why does he want to say yes? It has to be peer pressure. It must be.

Disregarding the fact that Quentin’s using very little pressure. Disregarding the fact that a part of Peter hopes they’ll breathe into each other’s mouths again so he can feel the warm brush of Quentin’s lips against his. “I’m sorry, I really— I really should go.”

“You don’t wanna keep me company?” Quentin teases, opening up the bag. “I’m giving you a rockstar’s t-shirt, after all.”

Right, the t-shirt. All he has to do is get the autographed t-shirt and bring it back to MJ, then he can spend the drive home sleeping off whatever nightmarish concoction Quentin’s offering him now. He leans in closer, watching Quentin’s fingers fish the little tabs out of the bag. They don’t look too intimidating— just white little pills, oddly similar to his allergy medication. He can take one quickly, and book it back over the fence before MJ’s curfew.

“I’ll have one,” he says. “If you wanna give me it.”

Quentin balances a tablet on his finger, holding it up to Peter’s face. “It tastes good, honey. I promise. Now, open up for me.”

Peter cracks his mouth open slightly, enough for Quentin to slip his finger inside and drop the pill on his tongue. His eyes widen. It _does_ taste good, sweet like candy and cold like mint. He’s so caught up in his surprise that he barely notices that Quentin hasn’t pulled his finger out of his mouth. He only realizes when he tries to swallow and accidentally sucks on him, loud and wet in the quiet of the tour bus.

“I take back what I said about no tact,” Quentin murmurs, running the pad of his finger along the length of Peter’s tongue. “Or maybe you’re just a natural.”

Peter tries to talk around his finger, but only manages to drool a little on his chin. Whatever he took definitely hasn’t kicked in yet, but he feels laxer. More pliant. Peter sucks on Quentin’s finger, lashes fluttering when he lets out a loud groan. It sends a rush of warmth through his stomach, pooling in his gut, hot and sweet.

“You wanna take this to the next level, kid?” Quentin asks, pulling his finger out of Peter’s mouth. He chuckles when Peter instinctively chases after it, mouth parted and wet with spit.

Peter blinks up at him. “Next level? What do you mean?”

Quentin runs a hand through his hair, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. The word _sexy_ comes to mind, even though Peter’s never been inclined to use it before now. “A lotta people your age would kill to lose their virginities to a rockstar, y’know.”

Virginity? Quentin’s not wrong about other people, but Peter’s not other people. “I don’t know if I wanna go that far,” he mumbles, inching closer to Quentin anyway. “But, we could do other stuff.”

“Other stuff?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, head getting cloudy again, cloudier than before. He gives Quentin a grin that he hopes isn’t too dopey. “Whatever you want.”

Quentin drags Peter closer by the hips, until he’s half in his lap, one leg hitched over his thigh. The pose itself is lewd enough to make his dick strain against the denim seam of his jeans. “Well,” Quentin hums, reaching for Peter’s crotch. “I’d love to make you come in your pants. You’d have to go home like that— sticky and wet, wishing you’d let me fuck you.”

Quentin doesn’t bother to pull down Peter’s pants, his cock visibly straining against the denim. “Already hard, huh? Is that the drugs, or is it me?”

Peter wants to bury his head in the ground before his cheeks can get any redder. “You,” he gasps as Quentin starts kneading him through the rough fabric. “It’s you.”

“I think it’s the drugs,” Quentin hums, resting his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “I mean, you didn’t even know what my name was twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re so handsome,” Peter says, earnestly as he can through his moans. “It’s you— you’re, you’re sexy.”

It feels strange to say out loud, and it’s something he would never say if he were sober. Quentin laughs, his grip on Peter’s hip tightening. “I’m sexy? Look at yourself, honey.”

Peter flushes, his hips rutting against Quentin’s hand involuntarily. _Honey_. He definitely feels like honey, melting all over Quentin’s body, everything sweet and golden. The pet name has him swooning, his dick painfully hard in his jeans. “I’m close,” he gasps, and then, “please, _Quentin_.”

Quentin loops his free arm around Peter’s hips, pulling him onto his lap and closer to his chest, pressing his face into the crook of his shoulder. Peter feels that familiar strain in his gut— that telltale feeling of _release_ , amplified by whatever it is that he’s taken. He clenches his eyes shut, clumsily humping Quentin’s open palm, chasing the high, his body pulled tight. 

Peter’s briefs dampen, but it’s not cum like he’d expected. His cheeks flush red-hot in mortification. “Oh _god_ , no, no,” he whimpers, his hips stuttering as he wets his jeans, undoubtedly messing up the nice shag carpet on the floor. He doesn’t know how long it lasts, probably only a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Even with Quentin right behind him, he can’t bring himself to stop.

Peter squirms in the tight hold, humiliated— trying to leave before Quentin has the chance to kick him out. Before he realizes that Peter really is just another dumb kid who can’t hold his drugs.

Instead, Quentin sinks his teeth into the soft line of Peter’s throat, muffling a moan against him. Peter feels the distinct pain of skin breaking, gasping as Quentin bites down harder. He keeps wiggling his hips, despite the fact that Quentin’s hand isn’t there for him to rut against, now resting under his chin. He’s not really cutting off Peter’s air, but it feels like it, Peter’s head spinning even faster than before— the pain of the teeth in his skin and the chafing feeling of wet fabric clinging to his cock melting into one wild blur of _pleasure_.

“Oh god,” he gasps, half-delirious, his lips instinctively parting into an exhilarated shape. Peter’s stomach feels like it’s swooping, like he’s on a rollercoaster that’s dropping hard and fast. “Fuck, fuck me, _please_ —”

Quentin tightens his grip around Peter’s throat and then he’s _coming_ — so hard that he almost feels like he’s going to be sick or faint or _die_ , harder than he’s ever come before. Peter grits his teeth, exhaling with a loud hiss as he feels another splash of warmth inside his ruined underwear. Quentin lets go of his neck, running his tongue over the marks and coaxing another moan from Peter’s mouth, high and embarrassing.

Peter’s head lolls back against Quentin’s chest, his body numb from coming so ridiculously hard. He might be crying.

“Get your pants off for me, Pete,” Quentin murmurs in his ear. “Let’s get to the good part.”

As far as Peter’s concerned, the whole thing has been good— if it can get any better than this, he’s so totally in. He fumbles with his belt buckle for a beat, eager fingers slipping over cold metal and leather. Quentin snickers, batting his hands out of the way and doing it for him. Then his hands go still, brushing against his jeans.

“Jesus,” Quentin breathes, peeling back the wet denim and tugging it down his thighs. “Look at this fucking mess.”

Peter wants to apologize, but his tongue feels too heavy in his mouth. All he can manage is a weak whine, writhing again, trying to get away and spare himself the embarrassment.

“Make it up to me,” Quentin says, dipping a hand under the waistband of his underwear, hand running through the slick mess with a wet sound. His hand grazes Peter’s sensitive dick, coaxing out another pained sound.

In a blur of movement, Quentin tugs his underwear down too, bunching it up around his knees along with his pants. He gives Peter a hard shove, sending him tumbling off his lap and face-first onto the carpet in a mess of limbs. “I don’t feel great,” Peter says into the fur, already wet from his drool, his head spinning even harder than before. “Can we— can we take a breather?”

Quentin tuts, running the head of his cock along the cleft of Peter’s ass. “You don’t need a breather, baby. Stop bugging out.”

“I’m not, I _do_ ,” Peter says, blinking hard. Regaining some of his good sense as the haze in his mind suddenly becomes less thick. Like clearing fog. “I don’t know— my friends are probably looking for me.”

There’s an annoyed sound from behind him, before a hand winds itself in his curls and yanks his head off of the floor. Quentin takes advantage of his pained cry, pressing his thick fingers into Peter’s open mouth— still slightly sticky and salty from being inside his boxers. He wants to gag, but before he can, the taste changes into something leagues better.

The second pill dissolves against his tongue, cooling and sweet like a spoonful of ice cream, and Peter gulps it down gratefully. He wants to leave, _needs_ to leave, but another high sounds really good. Too good to turn down, definitely. He can grin and bear it, can’t he?

Quentin pulls his fingers out once he swallows, seemingly satisfied. Peter’s head drops onto the floor, weak without Quentin’s hand pulling him up by his hair— his vision going blurry with the sudden impact, a burst of light behind his eyelids.

“We’ll give it a minute,” Quentin says, the wet sound of his hand on his cock echoing in the empty tour bus. 

It doesn’t feel like a minute’s passed, but Quentin’s pushing into him already, forcing the air from his lungs. It _hurts_ and Peter cringes, feeling the lukewarm slick of his cum and his piss on Quentin’s dick. “Plea— ah,” he slurs, “hurts.”

“It won’t hurt after a while, Pete. Promise.”

Peter wants to ask if he means it, if he really promises, but he can’t manage to form any words. Quentin sinks deeper inside, spreading him open further than he’d ever thought possible. And all he can do is gasp, bracing for the excruciating pain that inevitably follows. Instead, there’s a hot tingling— he’s aware of the pain, but it feels _good_. Like all his nerves have been rewired to only feel pleasure, which should be scientifically impossible. And _yet_.

Every part of him that should be hurting feels electrified, every sensation dialed to a hundred— the burn of his cheek rubbing against the carpet, the strain in his back from the position he’s in, the pressure of Quentin’s cock against his insides. Peter can’t help but moan, trying in vain to hump the floor, get some friction on his sensitive dick.

“Beg me for it,” Quentin growls, pulling out with a sudden squelch that leaves Peter sobbing. “Beg.”

“Please, please, Quentin,” Peter babbles instantly, “fuck me, touch me, _please_.” His lips feel clumsy and awkward, and he’s not sure if he’s actually saying the words or just thinking them, but the desperation must come through because Quentin slides back into him in one thrust.

“Good boy,” he praises, and Peter’s head goes warm and fuzzy.

Quentin thinks he’s a good boy, makes him feel so good, almost like he’s in love. Scratch that— he _is_ in love. “I love you,” he gasps, each syllable fucked out of him. “I think I’m totally in love with you.”

There’s a sudden shift in his position, the length of Quentin’s body pressing him harder into the floors. “Yeah?” he pants, steadily rocking his hips against Peter’s. “You’re my biggest fan, aren’t you, baby?”

Peter hadn’t even heard of The Sinister Six until last week, but he knows, deep down to his gut, that he is Quentin Beck’s biggest fan. He loves this. He loves how he feels. And he loves Quentin so, so _much_. “Yes, ‘m your biggest fan, I love you, I love you—”

He must accidentally clench, because Quentin makes a pleased sound, something along the lines of a hiss and moan. Peter feels like he might float away, if it weren’t for Quentin’s weight on top of him. “Fuck, you’re so tight— gonna get you nice and loose by the end of the tour.”

“Yeah, that’s— I want to—”

Does he want to? What did Quentin say? _Tour_? Like, the band’s tour? 

Peter shakes his head. “No, I don’t know if I should stay that long, um.” The saccharine haze starts to sour, fast. All of a sudden, Quentin’s weight feels less like comfort and more like danger. Somewhere, MJ and Brad are wondering where he is. Maybe they’ll take her car and ditch him. He deserves it, for being a flat-leaver in the first place. 

“You should stay,” Quentin says, rolling his hips.

“No,” he pleads, struggling weakly. “I need— I have to go, I have to go home.”

Peter cuts himself off with a squeal. Quentin presses in closer, so close that Peter can feel the rough texture of his jeans against his thighs. And then he sinks further inside him, somehow. Peter didn’t even think it was possible for someone to be so deep in someone else’s guts. He goes limp against the rug, hands aimlessly tangling in the shag.

“Of course you should stay, Pete,” Quentin repeats, breathing heavily. “Every cool kid wants to be a groupie.”

“ _Hurts_.” Peter squirms slightly, his still-sensitive cock rutting against the carpet with every thrust. “Hurting— me.”

Quentin sighs again, slowing his movements and lifting his weight off of him. Peter gulps a grateful breath of air, before his mouth is full of fingers again. “Swallow,” Quentin commands. “Hurry up.”

Peter swallows the pill so quickly that he doesn’t even taste it, his heart skipping a beat at the prospect of getting higher— feeling even _better_. Despite the fact that he never really comes more than once in a night, his dick throbs against the carpet. The painful sensitivity morphs into pleasure, and Peter feels an unexpected blurt of precum, adding to the mess on the floor.

If he could feel this good all the time, maybe he wouldn’t mind being on tour with Quentin and his bandmates. It’s not like he needs to go to school anyway, he’s already really smart as is. Plus, May wouldn’t have to pay for his tuition. Wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore.

Peter imagines a life with Quentin— everything he’s been warned against. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. The biggest threats to good teenagers like him. The biggest threats to America. The most dangerous cultural movements in the world.

He’d be an idiot if he said no.

“ _Shtay_ ,” he lisps thickly, drooling so much that it’s puddling under his cheek. He shifts again, smearing it across his face. “I wanna— _ah_ — wanna stay.”

“Good choice, baby.” Quentin slams into Peter, his hips rocking hard against his ass. So far inside him. Peter swears he can taste Quentin’s dick in the back of his throat, despite how nonsensical it may seem. He knows it’s impossible, but it feels like Quentin’s really rearranging his guts. Doing permanent damage. Loosening him up before they’ve even gotten the chance to hit the road— would he still want Peter with him if he’s all fucked open and gaping?

Peter’s breath quickens, his lungs going tight as he starts to panic. _Oh god_. This doesn’t seem right. He feels like his brain is shutting off while his heart races at a million beats per minute. Per second.

This is probably why everyone spends so much time talking about the dangers of drugs, why May was so scared about sending him to a rock concert— why he shouldn’t have taken pills from a stranger in the first place. He’s going to _die_ , he’s going to have a panic attack, or, god forbid, an _asthma attack_ , and choke to death right here, impaled on a rockstar’s cock and humping a piss-soaked carpet.

It’s one of many wrong assumptions Peter’s made tonight, and for once, he’s glad to be wrong. He doesn’t die or cough up a lung— instead, he starts gagging, a strange, clear fluid gushing from his throat and mixing with the rest of his spit on the floor. 

And then, just like that, Peter’s back on cloud nine. Cloud ten. Cloud _billion_. He tries his best to keep his voice down, biting down on his lip hard enough that the skin breaks in a delicious rush of pain. Still, with every tiny movement, he’s moaning, almost screaming. It’s physically impossible for him to be quiet. Not when he’s being fucked so hard that he’s seeing stars. 

Quentin makes a mocking sound, but doesn’t try to make him scream louder. If anything, he slows his thrusts, languidly rocking his hips. “Feeling better now?” he teases. “I knew you would.”

Peter tries to ask what’s happening, but comes up short on words, keening into the carpet instead. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t form anything resembling a sentence. Fucked into incoherence.

“What was that?” Quentin asks, smugness bleeding into every word. Enjoying every second.

The frustration brings hot tears to his eyes. Peter shakes his head with a sob. He’s useless right now, slow and nonsensical like the stupid kid he is. And he was trying _so_ hard to seem cool, to seem grown-up, like he can handle himself.

Quentin coos. “That’s okay baby. You won’t have the brains to speak for a while, so you can stop trying. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Peter turns his face into the carpet, rocking back against him. Every other thrust of Quentin’s hips knocks the air out of his lungs, forcing pathetic little moans from his mouth to accompany the lewd slap of skin-on-skin. He’d be embarrassed if he could think straight, but right now, he thinks it’s totally hot.

Filthy things are sexy, painful things are pleasurable— it feels like everything’s been flipped upside-down. He can see the appeal of the drug, why Quentin makes it so, _so_ strong. Even the feeling of rug burn on his face makes him moan. 

All Peter’s wires are crossed, and Quentin’s hitting them with double the normal voltage. Maybe triple.

“Fuck,” Quentin groans, his thrusts becoming more frantic and irregular. Using Peter to get off instead of fucking him in earnest. “Gonna come, honey. Gonna fill you up so, so good.”

Peter wants it, wants it _so_ bad, but he still can’t speak, no matter how hard he tries. He settles for moaning, loud and wanton, trying to convey that he really, really needs to feel Quentin come inside him.

“You don’t have to get greedy,” Quentin says breathily. “I’ll fill you up whenever you want it. You’re my groupie now, aren’t you?”

Quentin’s groupie. A real groupie to a real rockstar. Peter nods his head frantically, his cheek rubbing against the rug and flaring up in that pleasure-pain mix that leaves him feeling mind-numbingly good. He whimpers against his own shoulder, trying to turn and look at Quentin again, just to make sure this is real. Not some cruel illusion.

It’s not an illusion, because Quentin pulls Peter’s hips up against his own, and comes, hot inside Peter’s body. Burning him up from the inside out. Peter’s own orgasm takes him by surprise— he jolts forward, Quentin’s dick sliding out of him so quickly that he sobs, slumping on the carpet, cum leaking from his ass. Onto the shag, no doubt. It was such a nice rug, too.

Quentin smears the rest of his cum against Peter’s cheek with a satisfied sound. Peter wants to lick it up, taste him, but the psychedelic spots behind his eyelids are getting more vibrant, and he can barely move a muscle. “You shouldn’t sleep on the floor, honey,” Quentin’s voice says, sounding distant and echoey. “You should sleep on a bed.”

Peter just blinks, before letting his eyes slip shut again. He’ll sleep in a bed when he gets home. It’s late, but Brad and MJ wouldn’t abandon him. He’ll just take a little nap, and when he wakes up, he’ll climb the fence and go back to the car.

Quentin makes a noncommittal sound, and Peter sinks deeper into the haze, thinking of his nice, blue eyes.

—

“Jesus Christ, Quentin,” Toomes groans as soon as he steps into the tour bus. "Did you kill the kid?" And he calls Quentin dramatic. 

Granted, it is a wild sight.

Peter hasn’t moved from his spot on the rug, still in a daze from his last orgasm. Quentin’s cum still trickling out of him in a thin stream. 

“Okay, he might _look_ brain-dead,” he starts, getting up from the couch. “But he’s totally fine. See?” He nudges Peter with the toe of his boot, and the kid makes a weak gurgling noise.

“One of these days, all these boys are gonna get together and sue you for everything you’ve got, you ass.”

Quentin crosses his arms. “They won’t, because I never hurt them.” He steps over Peter, reaching for a joint and a lighter. “Well, I do hurt them, but they love it.”

Toomes raises a skeptical eyebrow, still staring at Peter in a heap on the ground. “You’re telling me that this kid is having a good time right now? Because it doesn’t look like it to me.”

“Now that you mention it,” Quentin says, crouching down next to Peter, “he does seem a bit vacant.” He pulls the joint from his mouth, examining Peter’s unblemished skin. Settles on his forearm— somewhere difficult to cover in the summer heat. “Peter,” he coos, waiting for the kid to open those big brown eyes, before jamming the lit end of his joint into the soft skin just by his elbow.

Toomes hisses in sympathy, but it’s lost over the pleased keening sounds Peter makes. Quentin watches Peter's eyes widen in shock, almost black from how blown his pupils are. He didn’t actually get to see him come earlier, but now he has a front-row seat. Peter’s slick lips part as he gasps his way through it, arching his back and lifting his hips off the carpet. Totally strung-out on pleasure by the blank look in his eyes.

All from getting a joint put out on his skin. That agonizing pain turned into agonizing pleasure, just from a few little pills. Quentin’s a fucking genius.

“Jesus Christ, Quentin,” Toomes repeats, watching Peter tremble against the carpet. A completely different tone from before. Like he might think Quentin's a fucking genius too.

“Gotta love groupies,” Quentin says casually, glancing down at Peter. Then he grins, savoring the way Toomes narrows his eyes. “Let me know if you want a turn.”

**Author's Note:**

> do you guys get tired of my stuff. peters gullible. quentin takes advantage of him. the same old same old..... derivative
> 
> if you want to know who sable starr is and what groupie culture was actually like i totally recommend doing some research on it and can give some sources..... crazy times
> 
> [i'm on twitter](twitter.com/piagnucolares)


End file.
